


Young and beautiful

by magpie_fngrl



Series: Tumblr AU Prompts [11]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Muggle, Hopeful Ending, Hospitals, M/M, World War I
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-21
Updated: 2018-11-21
Packaged: 2019-08-25 10:07:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16659140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magpie_fngrl/pseuds/magpie_fngrl
Summary: Harry meets a fellow patient in the hospital where he's convalecsing.





	Young and beautiful

**Author's Note:**

  * For [untilourapathy (gwendolen_lotte)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gwendolen_lotte/gifts).



> Written as a tumblr fill to this ask: **untilourapathy** asked: _Hullo Magpie! If it's not too late, maybe an university AU or a historical AU? I'm not sure how involved you're planning on this being, perhaps just a snippet or something, but perhaps our boys gallivanting across time and the world! Renaissance Drarry perhaps, or Brideshead Revisted Drarry, or even WW1 Drarry! Whatever strikes your fancy :D_
> 
> Love and gratitude to my lovely friends, palendrome(nerdherderette) and LowerEastSide, for looking this over. Thank you <33

Every afternoon the same patient sits on the bench by the pond, gazing at the willows. Harry sits beside him.

‘Hello.’

The man turns to look at him. Nods. Turns back to the willows.

The next afternoon, he’s there again. A duck and its ducklings cross the pond, sending ripples across the surface. Birdsong fills the air. Spring has sprung in the gardens surrounding the convalescence hospital. In the fragrant, cool breeze, Harry could be mistaken in thinking France was years ago.

It’s not. It’s been three months.

‘I’m Harry Potter.’ He doesn’t expect a reply – perhaps the fellow can’t speak. He has no visible wounds; usually those are worse.

It’s peaceful by the pond, but far from still. Kingfishers and ducks and bees flit in and out of the foliage and the swaying reeds. White butterflies flutter around the bushes. Harry joins the man on the bench every afternoon now, sitting in silence and watching. The late April rains have given way to sweet sunshine and light breezes.

‘I don’t remember my name,’ says the man out of the blue one warm day.

‘What do the nurses call you?’ Harry asks.

‘Soldier. Or “dear”.’

They’re all called “dear” or “love” by the nurses. _Come now, dear, take your medicine_. _Here’s your lunch, love, mind you eat it all_. They see in them their husbands and their sons, their brothers and their fiancés, volunteering their time and effort to make their convalescence easier, while praying someone else is looking after their own dears, whether in earth or heaven.

‘Do you remember your battalion?’

The man looks away. ‘Nothing. I remember nothing.’

 

‘I was in the Somme,’ Harry volunteers one day. The man hasn’t asked, and he probably doesn’t care. They all have stories like that. The Somme, the Marne, Gallipoli…  

‘Is that where you hurt your leg?’

‘I was one of the lucky ones.’ Harry fishes a photograph from the front pocket of his pyjamas. ‘That’s a few of us before we left for France. See that man? Ron Weasley, my lieutenant. Took a bullet to the head a week before the Somme. He was a good man; a good friend.’

The memories choke him and he points to the other men. ‘Longbottom; the man knew his way around a garden, I can tell you that. McMillan. Thomas. Goyle, that big lad with the cigarette.’ All are dead or wounded, scattered in military hospitals or unnamed graves. Half his peers gone once the dust had settled.

‘Were you in battle?’ he asks the man.

‘I’m not sure.’ The man opens his palms and stares at them as if he’ll be able to divine who he is. ‘My wounds aren’t on the outside.’

Harry wants to tell him they all have wounds on the inside.

 

In the hospital, they meet coming in and out of the bathroom, in the dining room, in the common room. The man always stays by himself. He’s almost invisible to the others, unnoticed even by Harry, until he’d spoken to him by the lake. Harry doesn’t approach him in the hospital. He likes the afternoons by the water when it’s just the two of them. He wants to have something to look forward to.

But he can’t stay silent when the man exits the bathroom late one night, his shirt unbuttoned. Harry’s gaze falls on the scars crisscrossing his thin chest. He can’t fathom what they are. The man pauses, his eyes wary. Harry doesn’t even realise he’s stepped closer. ‘How did this happen?’

‘I don’t remember.’

For the first time, Harry doesn’t believe him. Something in his tone, in his immediate reply, rings false.

Harry’s riveted by the scars, by how cruel they seem and also how incongruous they are to the battle wounds he’s used to seeing. He stretches out his hand. ‘May I?’

They’re alone in the corridor. A single oil lamp is flickering down the hall, casting them in long shadows, The man nods. Harry touches the scars lightly, almost reverently. ‘These are not battle wounds. These are…’ They look like the result of torture. Someone carefully and methodically sliced across the man’s chest. Possibly taking their time to ensure maximum pain.

Emotion overcomes Harry. He splays his fingers across the raised, pink skin, as if he can absorb the viciousness that’s been inflicted on it.

Gently, but firmly, the man grabs his wrist. He removes Harry’s hand and lowers it slowly.

‘They’ll heal,’ he says. ‘Don’t pity me. I deserved those.’

It hasn’t escaped Harry’s notice that the man hasn’t let go of his hand. ‘No one deserves those.’

 

Harry’s coming out of the bathroom when he sees the man waiting. He’s holding a razor. Harry gasps and the man hastens to explain. ‘I’m only going to shave my head.’ Harry exhales with relief; Crabbe’s suicide three weeks ago has shaken him.

‘Will you help me?’ the man asks.

‘Why are you doing this?’ Harry asks ten minutes later, the razor running smooth down the man’s scalp. He’s a little taller than Harry, his body exuding warmth and solidity, but there’s something of the wind in his scent, as if he was born for flight.

‘I felt like it.’ It sounds as truthful as the insistence of his amnesia.

Harry will miss the almost-white hair. He’s grown used to seeing it from the distance as he limps to the pond. He doesn’t say anything, though. The war has gouged them all, and if they want to indulge in a little fancy, who’s to blame them?

‘Done.’ He meets the man’s eyes in the mirror. He looks almost unrecognisable without the halo of his hair. His cheekbones and his pointy chin stand in sharper relief  – a knife of a face, sharp enough to make Harry bleed. He holds Harry’s gaze, who feels hot from his proximity to the man’s body and the smell of his skin, soap and sweat and _hospital,_ that particular smell clinging to them all. He swallows hard.

‘You look like someone else,’ Harry says, and makes to leave.

‘That’s the idea,’ the man murmurs, seemingly to himself.

 

The nurses are flustered. A man of some importance has arrived. He wears a long coat and a mustache and shows an ID to the doctors.

Head Nurse Burbage is called in the office.

Harry follows her down the corridor. Nurse Burbage has left the door ajar and Harry pauses, making a show of needing his cane more than he does. Doctor Lupin’s voice drifts to where Harry is pretending not to eavesdrop.

‘...British Intelligence. Draco Malfoy?’

‘We don’t have anyone by that name,’ Nurse Burbage says.

‘He’s six-foot-one, very blond…’

 

‘I’ll call you “Bob”.’ Harry sits on the bench beside the man.

‘Bob?’ The man is startled in laughter. It’s short-lived, as if he’s forgotten how to do it. ‘I dare say, I don’t look like a _Bob_.’

‘I think “Bob” suits you. Bobs have a good life, you know.’

‘I knew a Bob who died in the war.’

Harry shrugs. ‘Bet he had a good life before that, though.’

The man smiles. ‘Bob it is, then.’

 

“Dear Ginny,

[…] I have a question to ask of you. Have you heard of the Malfoy family? My memory isn’t what it used to be. I’m sure I’ve heard the name before, but I can’t seem to recall where.

Yours Faithfully,

Harry.”

 

It’s raining death. Shell after shell falls from the sky and he’s alone in a field of bodies. It’s a matter of time before the shells blast him, and he’s going to die, alone and terrified. He screams and finds himself awake in his hospital dorm.

Tears run down his face, and a warm hand is cupping his cheek.

‘It was a nightmare,’ Bob says.

‘It was raining shells. From the heavens. I was—’

‘It was a nightmare,’ Bob whispers again. ‘I was on my way to the loo when I heard you tossing and muttering.’

Harry concentrates on the feeling of Bob stroking his face and his hair. How warm and soothing it feels, how solid and real, how far away from the Somme and France.

How wonderful it makes him feel, and how dangerous it is to feel like that.

Bob’s eyes shine bright in the night, beacons that guide Harry safely back to reality. ‘Better now?’

It is. Harry’s sleepy again and relaxed. His eyes flutter shut. The words come out of his mouth without conscious thought.

‘I’d like to dream about you.’

He thinks he must have dreamed the reply. ‘I dream about you, too, Harry.’

 

“Dearest Harry,

I am happy to hear your convalescence is going well. […]

As for the Malfoy name you asked about, the only one I am familiar with is Lord Malfoy, the Earl of Warminster. He’s a Peer in the House of Lords. Not a pleasant sort, from what I gather.

Forever yours,

Ginny.”

 

It’s a bright day and the sunlight reflects off the surface of the pond in a million sparkles.

Bob seems restless. ‘What kind of lives do Bobs have?’

‘They have the best lives,’ Harry replies. ‘Not very exciting, mind you. They have a house in a quiet area, or even a cottage somewhere in the countryside. They work with their hands – it’s fulfilling but not very well-paid. Bobs don’t mind; they like the routine. Waking up to the same view every day.’

“Bob” is smiling at Harry’s narration. Harry - heart in his mouth with his own daring – puts his hand over his. They’re far from the hospital, no one can see. Anyone coming down the path will be heard long before they arrive.

Bob doesn’t remove his hand. They stay like this, hand in hand on the wooden bench, gazing at the ducks and the herons.

‘Do Bobs get married?’

‘Some do. But a Bob is usually a confirmed bachelor. He doesn’t marry. But, sometimes, he might take a lodger. A roommate. To cover expenses, you understand.’

‘Sounds like a great life,’ says Bob.

‘It is. It’s a great life,’ says Harry, his heart aching with how much he wants this lie to be true. How much he wants Bob to be Bob and not… not who he is.

 

A shiny car drives up the house and all the patients gather at the windows to gape at it. ‘It’s a Rolls,’ says Finnigan, a match hanging from his lips. ‘My mate down Cork fixes them.’

A richly-dressed man sweeps into the building, silver hair glowing. Harry knows who he is. The family resemblance is uncanny.

Bob is called to the office; he comes out of it looking furious and miserable. His father looks furious and satisfied as he sweeps out of the hospital, leaving behind tittering nurses.

Nurse Burbage doesn’t call Bob a “dear” any more, but “Sir”.

Bob isn’t by the lake later. Harry waits until the sun falls, and it gets too cold to sit outside before he makes the tortuous walk to the hospital on his cane.

 

That night, Harry can’t sleep. He gives up the attempt and limps to the common room, silent and dark in the night. Discarded packets of cards lie on tables along with folded newspapers and someone’s unfinished chess game. Harry sees a figure in an armchair, lit by the pale moonlight streaming through the bay windows.

Bob raises his head and smiles when he sees that it’s Harry, but there’s nothing joyful in that smile.

Harry’s all choked up, too. He sits on the window seat. ‘You’re leaving, aren’t you?’

Bob moves beside him and unties the curtain. It falls over the window seat, covering them from sight. ‘I wish I could take you with me.’

They speak in whispers. Hands seek hands, and suddenly Harry can’t bear it any longer. He draws Bob – Draco – to him, pressing his body against the warm, solid body of the elusive man. ‘I wish… I wish for so many things.’ He turns his head to brush Draco’s lips. ‘I wish for a kiss most of all.’ His heart is galloping, his breath coming short, praying he hasn’t been too daring.

Draco smiles faintly and lowers his head a fraction. He kisses Harry almost reverently, and Harry kisses back, his hand rubbing Draco’s head, shorn of the telltale Malfoy hair. He kisses Draco deeper and more insistently, trying to pour into the kiss everything he can’t say in words. _I love you. I know you were a spy. I know you faked your amnesia. I love you. I know who your father is. I wish we weren’t men and in love when it could get us sent to gaol. I love you._

He says the last one out loud. ‘I love you.’ It’s only been a couple of months, but does it matter? Harry knows what he feels, and he won’t shy away from it.

Draco brushes his lips. ‘Maybe you love Bob. I’m not Bob.’

‘I love _you_ , Draco Malfoy.’

Draco freezes, then shakes his head with a huff of laughter. He resumes laying soft kisses on Harry. ‘You should be a detective.’

‘Perhaps I will be. A veritable Sherlock Holmes.’ Harry slides his hands under Draco’s nightshirt, seeking his skin. He can feel Draco’s pulse under his thin ribs and the heat emanating from his stomach.

‘And I’ll be your Watson,’ Draco says, gasping as Harry reaches lower between his legs. ‘I’ll live with you in a cottage and call myself Bob, and write books about Harry Potter and his adventures.’ His eyes flutter shut as Harry strokes him harder. ‘We’ll live by the coast and take long walks during the day, and at night, you’ll come into my bed – _oh, like that_ – and—’

‘And I’ll make love to you.’ Harry is shivering with the thrill of saying it out loud, something so dangerous, something he desperately wants. ‘Forever, if I can.’

‘Will you still love me when we’re no longer young or beautiful?’ Draco’s face ripples with the force of his arousal.

‘We’ll always be young and beautiful.’ Harry watches Draco in the throes of his orgasm, with his high flush and fluttering eyes, and the hazy, blissful smile.

‘Let me return the favour.’ Draco kneels in front of Harry, who leans his head back on the window and loses himself in that warm mouth.

 

The next morning, the expensive car rolls up the drive. Its chauffeur jumps out, takes Draco’s valise from his hands, and opens the door for him.

‘Who the fuck was this toff, then?’ the other patients speculate as they gather at the windows, watching the car drive out of sight.

‘Some ponce; who cares about his name?’ Finnigan asks.

‘He’s off to the good life now, inn’e?’

‘Lucky sod. I’m off to the factory after this. Twelve-hour shifts, if I’m lucky.’

‘Reckon they’ll let you in with one eye?’

‘Sod off.’

 

It’s June, not that anyone would know it. A cool spell has kept the patients indoors, their walks around the gardens brief. Some patients leave-  – Finnigan “to his mam’s nagging,” and Boot to his sweetheart’s arms, and others arrive, sometimes missing a limb or two. Harry prefers to sit by the lake alone, even if it’s cold. Ginny’s been writing to him all this time. They said they’d get married after the war, but he can’t bring himself to look forward to it. He likes her. He enjoys spending time with her. But he doesn’t love her, at least not like a husband should.

He wouldn’t be the first man to marry a woman he doesn’t love, and Harry wouldn’t mind if it weren’t for the certainty they no longer wished for the same things. They’d both been ambitious before the war, wanting to go to the city and make a name for themselves. Ginny’s training to be a professional golfer. She downplays her achievements in her letters, not out of false modesty, but probably to avoid sounding conceited when he’s been stuck in a hospital for six months.

No trace of ambition remains in Harry’s body. He has no desire for the city. He can never run again, so the jobs he’d wanted are out of the question. Not to mention the tremors and the dreams and the shivers. He’d be bringing the war to Ginny, fouling her sweet life with the poison he carries within. The idea alone is enough to make him choke.

The doctor finally pronounces him fit to leave. ‘You might even walk without a cane,’ he says, ‘once the knee’s mended enough.’

It’s the last day of June, and Harry walks down the lane from the hospital to the village. He hasn’t told Ginny nor anyone else that he’s been discharged. He’ll take a train to Devon to where Bathilda lives. An old friend of his parents’, Bathilda’s assured Harry he can stay with her at any time and for as long as he wants.

A car roars behind him, the sound deafening. Harry moves closer to the field to let it pass, but it pulls up right beside him.

Harry’s heart stutters at the sight of the driver. He glances at Harry, his eyes bright and mischievous. ‘Need a ride?’

Harry says, ‘I’ve got a train to catch.’

‘To?’

‘Devon.’

‘What a coincidence. I’m heading there myself. We have a residence in Devon, right by the sea. A cottage really.’ His eyes bore on Harry’s, intent and serious. ‘Want to come with me?’

Harry feels as if he stands on a cliff, about to jump. He knows what Draco’s asking. He knows what the dangers are, knows he’ll possibly hurt Ginny, but not even an army could stop him from getting in the car.

He slowly grins and opens the passenger’s door. ‘I’d love to come with you, Draco.’

‘You must be mistaking me for someone else,’ Draco says, as Harry climbs in the car. ‘I’m Bob.’

**Author's Note:**

> I'm also on [tumblr](http://magpiefngrl.tumblr.com/) if you wanna come say hi :)
> 
> Kudos and comments are seen and loved! ❤❤
> 
>   **Please DON'T REPOST MY WORK on instagram, wattpad and anywhere else. However, feel free to screenshot the header ONLY (title, rating, tags, summary) and provide a link if you wish to share your appreciation of this story.**


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